After: A Tale of Peter Pan
by WorldSeeker
Summary: "Lady, why are you crying?" The epilogue to the epilogue of J.M. Barrie's masterpiece, this stunning short story deals with one of Neverland's forgotten questions when Peter flies through an oddly familiar window: Did Peter ever forget Wendy? Relive the magic and wonder of the Boy Who Never Grew Up in this heartwarming addition to the tale of Peter Pan that ends with a twist!


**A/N: WORLDSEEKER'S BACK! HUZZAH AND COOKIES FOR ALL!**

 **I love Peter Pan. It's always been a story very dear to my heart, in all its versions. Play, book, film; While this story relies heavily on the J.M. Barrie's original works, this story is a tribute to them all, and a reconciliation of a few inconsistencies that have always intrigued me.**

 **Read, enjoy, and pretty please with pixie dust on top: REVIEW! Constructive criticism is the best thing in the world. Without readers, a writer is powerless, which makes you guys my kryptonite and Lois Lane, all wrapped into one. Based on your guys' response I may add more Neverland short stories or one-shots here, so lemme know if you like what you read!**

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After

Stars crowded around the old Darling house that night. The smallest of all the stars in the Milky Way-who felt somewhat responsible for the whole thing-watched extra carefully, and so he was the first to see a dark shape fly up to the open nursery window. The little star spent its next few breaths shushing the rest, and all was quiet, save for a single voice.

"Lady, why are you crying?"

The old woman looked up, and stared. There on her windowsill perched a boy of immaterial age, dressed in an outfit of leaves and cobwebs.

Quickly she wiped her tears away with an old handkerchief. "I wasn't crying." She said. "What is your name?"

"Peter Pan." The boy stood with his hands on his hips. He bit his lip as though ashamed at the shortness of his name. "What is yours?"

"Wendy Moira Angela Darling." She said it very quietly.

"Is that what they put on your letters?" The boy seemed surprised to hear the question come out of his own mouth. He'd heard it before, somewhere…

The old woman gave a snorting little laugh. "And what do you know about letters?"

"I had a mother who got letters, I think. Or pretended she did." His nose crinkled as he tried to remember which. He shrugged and decided it didn't matter.

"And what did they put on your mother's make-believe letters?" Starlight turned the woman's white hair to silver and put a twinkle in her tired eyes.

A confident smile showed all his first teeth. "Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning."

The woman sat in silence for a moment. "You already know my name, Peter." she sighed. "Or you did, once."

But Peter was distracted by a shadow on the wall. "I've seen this before!" he said. "My shadow dancing on that wall. But there were nightlights, and more of you…" he looked around the room but found it empty, save for the woman in her rocking chair. "And my shadow wouldn't stick."

"It needed sewing." The old woman smiled at the memory. "You tried to use soap."

"And someone…someone gave me something." His fingers absently searched in the leaves at his neck, pulling something on a worn piece of twine.

The woman's face clouded. "Oh, Peter. After all this time?"

The boy looked down at the little metal cup in his hand as if in surprise. "A…thimble?" he said uncertainly.

She shook her head. "No Peter. A kiss."

"That's right!" he realized triumphantly. He almost crowed, but something in the old woman's eyes stopped him. Peter hoped she wouldn't cry. He couldn't stand it when girls cried instead of laughing or smiling at him.

"I've waited so long, Peter." The old woman's voice was low, and sad.

"I know." The words came without thought, or memory, but come they did. Like a game of pretend. "I forgot."

A worn smile crossed her face. "I thought that might have been the reason. It's alright."

But it wasn't. Something was wrong here, but he couldn't think what. And it felt like his fault, somehow. "Wendy-lady?" he said uncertainly, the name strange on his tongue. "How long until spring-cleaning?"

Her eyes softened. "Oh, not for a while, Peter. It's always winter in this house, these days. You should find another to visit."

Peter shook his head violently. "No." he said firmly, unsure what he was refusing.

"You can't keep me, Peter. Soon I will go."

"NO." Peter insisted angrily. "You'll come with me, and we'll ride the wind's back and say funny things to the stars, like we always do!" The words still made no sense, but things began to tickle his memory. Trees that grew into tables just in time for tea, top hats and a teddy bear. A pretty little house built around a strange bird, and a hook, glinting silver in the moonlight…a shudder ran through him. The wind was cold, that was all.

"Do you remember Jane? Or Margaret?" The old woman asked. "They kept house for you too."

He shrugged. The names meant nothing to him.

"What of Tinker bell?"

Something warmed in his chest and suddenly it seemed too quiet in the small room. Peter glanced down at his shoulder, confused by how empty it looked. He wished something would make a noise, that the church down the street would ring its bells and break the silence, although they'd always sounded too low-pitched to him. He sat cross-legged on the window seat. "I don't like this game." He whispered.

"You don't have to play." Wendy said. "Fly back to your mother."

"I can't." He looked at the old woman. "She went away."

"I had to, Peter. All children must grow up."

"Not me!" Peter sprang to his feet. "I'll never be a man! I want always to be a little boy and to…to have fun!" Desperately he cast his gaze towards the window and found the second star. "I ran away to Neverland so I'd never have to grow up." A marvelous idea struck him, and he beamed. "You should come with me!" Gallantly he knelt at the lady's side. "You could tell stories to me and the lost boys, and we'd have great respect for you. One girl is worth twenty boys, you know." He added with a charming smile.

"I'm no girl." Wendy shook her head and looked away. "I'm an old woman, and soon I'll be gone."

Peter grew frustrated. "But there are mermaids, and pirates! We can have a hundred adventures a day, all crammed together like pages in a storybook."

The old lady's wrinkled with something like shame. "I've…I've forgotten how to fly, Peter."

The words hit him like thunder, and he stumbled back. "No!" he yelled, and his cheeks felt wet. "You promised! You _promised, Wendy!"_ Oh what, what could he not remember?

"Why can no one ever touch you, Peter?" The woman interrupted. Her gaze was suddenly sharp, and it made him uneasy.

"I don't know." He muttered, angrily swiping at his eyes. The old woman's brow furrowed in concentrated thought. After a moment she took a steadying breath, braced herself against the armrests, and stood from her chair. She walked towards him, looking stronger with every step as he backed away. "No one can ever touch me." He warned.

"But I did, Peter." She said quietly, and something cold dropped in his stomach. "When you had your nightmares. You would cry out, and I would hold you in my arms until they passed."

He bumped into the wardrobe behind him. "You didn't." Peter insisted. "No one must ever touch me."

"You've forgotten everyone, except me." Lightly she took another step towards him, her nightgown rustling against the carpet. "Why?"

He tried to remember a happy thought, to lift him into the air so he could fly away. But his thoughts were too jumbled and the only one that surfaced was of a girl in a nightgown, waving goodbye.

 _Goodbye means going away._

 _Going away means forgetting._

"Peter." The lady folded her hands. "Have you taken your medicine today?"

Water in a flower cup. He took it every day to chase away bad dreams, because someone had told him to. Someone special. Peter shook his head. "Medicine is for fathers." He said. "I'm a boy."

"There is something better than medicine, Peter. Something wonderful, to turn sad thoughts into happy ones."

"What else is there?" He meant to sound teasing, but the words came out desperate and pleading.

Slowly she opened her arms. "Come here, boy." The command was firm but playful, sparking memories of a mushroom-shaped chimney and cake that was too rich to eat.

He was shaking and he didn't know why. "I can't." But something inside him wanted to.

"You came to me once, many years ago." The woman said quietly. "So now I come to you, Peter Pan."

Peter stood frozen, gazing up at her with frightened eyes. Standing had tired her, but now she felt better than she had in years. Wendy smiled, then moved close and hugged the boy who had never grown up with all the love and strength she yet possessed.

The shaking stopped abruptly. She waited. Slowly two thin arms clothed in cobwebs found their way around her middle and squeezed back. Wrapped in a mother's embrace for the first time since his birth, Peter tried to speak and found a lump in his throat where words should be. He didn't know what this new medicine was called, but he felt warm and safe and—

His mind flooded with memory, and a wild, inhuman cry escaped his throat. Wendy held him tighter and knelt with him as Peter collapsed to his knees. Afraid she would let go he clung desperately to her as it all came back. John, Michael, Tiger Lily…Hook. Things he had seen and learned and done…and forgotten. Like he always did. But that was wrong, because _this_ adventure he had promised to remember, had _wanted_ to remember.

"Oh Wendy!" he cried out. "Wendy-lady, it _is_ you!"

"Yes, Peter," She squeezed her eyes shut as rested her cheek on his head. "It's me."

"But…" The white hair. The hand reaching out to him, soft and wrinkled. Peter almost pulled away. "You grew up."

"I have done more than that, Peter. I have children of my own, and they have children. I have lived."

He paused at the word, remembering his greatest secret. He had only ever told half of it, to a man with a hook. Except…maybe he'd told Tink. "Wendy?"

"Yes?"

The words were whispered to hide the shame in his voice, but they were true. "I think…I think to live would be a great adventure."

Somewhere a star gasped, but the littlest quickly shushed him.

Pressed against a shoulder that grew damp beneath his eyes, Peter felt a hand begin to stroke his hair. "I think you are right, Peter. It certainly seemed that way to me."

"But how do you know?" he asked. "How does one know if they have lived?"

"We remember, Peter." Wendy replied. He looked up and smiled at her unlined face, just as he remembered it. Then he frowned.

"But what if I forget again?"

"If you do, I shall remind you." Her voice was firm and reassuring. "But I don't think you will, now."

"Will I grow up?" he asked in a panic.

She laughed, and the sound was young. "I don't think you could grow up if you tried, Peter. You're far too clever for that."

He puffed out his chest proudly, but it quickly deflated. "I was very late for spring-cleaning, wasn't I." He hung his head dejectedly.

She held his face in both hands. "I forgive you."

"You do?" he shot up to float above the floor and crowed. "Then it's alright again!" He held out a hand. "Come with me Wendy, please. "

"Oh Peter, I don't know…"

"Please, Wendy?" he said quietly. "You must have lots of new stories, after living."

"After…?" The pair turned back to look at the wrinkled old woman in the rocking chair. She lay very still, but a small smile graced her lips.

Wendy sighed and tucked a brown curl behind her ear. "I suppose it was bound to happen, sooner or later."

"Are you sad?" Peter asked uncertainly. He still didn't like it when girls cried.

She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. "I was tired. And I've said my goodbyes."

"I have something that turns sad thoughts into happy ones." Peter suggested anyway, holding his arms out, unsure if he was doing it right but wanting to try.

Wendy laughed, then stood and hugged him tight. "Thank you, Peter." She said. "You're quite the gentleman, comforting a lady when she's in distress."

"Of course, milady." He bowed and swept an arm towards the open window. "Shall we?"

"To Neverland?" Wendy said, her eyes sparkling just as he remembered.

"Only if you can remember the way." Peter winked and floated backwards out the window.

Wendy rolled her eyes and primly lifted her hem as she stepped up onto the window seat. Scanning the sky, she pointed. "Second star to the right, and straight on 'til morning."

Peter laughed in delight and did a somersault in mid-air. "Come on then!" And he flew up to the roof to tease a star. You can guess which one.

Alone on the windowsill, Wendy turned and looked back at the woman in the chair. She tilted her head and smiled, remembering. A lifetime of happy thoughts floated her into the air, and she flew up to take Peter's hand.

"Can we stop on the way?" She asked.

"Naturally." Peter said in his best gentlemen-voice. "Where?"

"Kensington Gardens." Wendy replied, looking at the empty place on Peter's shoulder. "I want to see if there are any first laughs skipping about."

There was a pause. Then a slow, slow grin. Then Peter rose into the night, planted his hands on his hips, and crowed.

" _Oh, the cleverness of me!"_

This is how the story ends. Or begins, if you like.

Peter bowed. Wendy laughed, and flew away before he could offer his arm. They _did_ go to Kensington Gardens, and they _did_ find a brand new fairy, skipping about and generally trying to figure out what wings were for. They took the little pixie with them to Neverland, where they had hundreds of adventures a day, all crammed neatly together like pages of a storybook. A Certain Pirate may or may not have returned, but that is another tale for another day.

Wendy's old self was found the following morning by her granddaughter Margaret. The family had been quietly expecting the news for some time, so Margaret was at peace. She was sorry, however, that she never got the chance to tell Granny Wendy about her new baby daughter, who had laughed for the very first time that previous evening, while walking with her nurse through Kensington.

THE END

( _Or beginning, if you like_ )

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 ** _If you REALLY like what you read here, check out some of my original material at_** worlds-within-words. blogspot .com ** _(_** _Take out the spaces_ ** _). I post sample scenes and chapters from old and current projects and love getting reviews/comments._**

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 **A/N: PLEASE REVIEW! Your thoughts MATTER, and I want to hear them. Tell me what you liked, what you disliked, and WHY. Help me make this story better so it can do what it was meant to do: Uplift, entertain, maybe even inspire.**

 **REAL TALK: Fanfiction doesn't get published. (Mention 50 Shades here and I'll feed your hand to the crocodile). We don't write to get famous. It's a glorious writing exercise in plot and character development that lets us stretch our writing muscles and pay tribute to the characters and stories that inspired us to become writers in the first place. We write fanfiction for three reasons; to Play, to Practice, to Pay tribute.**

 **Now we could scribble out our ideas and lock them in a closet, satisfied that it's out of our brains and on paper, but we don't. We're human beings. We want to share our work with others, to see if it makes them feel and think the things we thought and felt as we were writing it. We share our ideas in hope of forging through screen and wires a connection with those on the other side. To collaborate and connect and _communicate_ our ideas to others, _with_ others. That is why we gather here.**

 **So what's the point of all of that if we don't _talk to each other?_**

 **Write a review. Tell me how or if my story touched you. Friends, I am here to Practice. I'm here to see what people think of my voice, my writing style and my ideas so I can take that constructive criticism and put it towards becoming a better writer. I do my best to PM a response to every review.**

 **(Also I'm a massive Peter Pan nerd any if anybody just wants to talk some Neverland/Peter/Barrie feel free to hit me up on PM)**


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